


Out Of Feathers, Out Of Bones

by InsertTheWitty



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, I HATED IT, I hope, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Rewrite, War, everyone suffers, so I fixed it, they suffer in this, this used to be a fic a I had
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-07-13 16:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertTheWitty/pseuds/InsertTheWitty
Summary: Mathias feels his world crashing down around him. He trains his gaze on the clouds, seeking out gods he is no longer sure are there.Even with all of his winters and storms, he could swear the sky has never looked so gray.





	1. We Set Fire To Our Homes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a parade of human suffering, but it is also a story of resilience. Getting back up, dusting yourself off, crying in the middle of the night and feeling an emptiness in your chest but moving forward anyway. I hope you like it.

Worn dirt roads slowly become ancient cobbled streets, bumpy and rough under the thin soles of Mathias’ boots. Around him, the great, slumbering oaks and the snow-covered pines melt into quaint two-story buildings, the vibrant paints diluted in the gray glow of a winter morning. 

It has been a brutal winter for the village of Brekka. In the very beginning, many had been relieved when the air took a much-desired chill, however reality set in soon enough. After a summer which killed much of the harvest, and even fewer people to harvest what was left, the cold became punishing, trapping most in their homes for weeks at a time and all but stopping the trade in and out of Brekka. It is a miracle so many had survived the winter so far, but they weren’t out of the woods yet.

Which is why Mathias is off put to hear a distant rumble of many voices. Festivals in Brekka were frequent and loud, but in this weather, with many barely having enough grain to bake a loaf of bread, it didn’t make sense for there to be one out of the blue.

There is nothing worth celebrating this year.

Mathias turns a warry blue gaze towards the steely gray of the sky, the clouds weighing heavy with their burden of snow. The wind blowing sharp through his thin coat cuts across his skin like a warning.

His feet start to move.

The center of Brekka has been nicknamed Balder since before anyone can remember. An area that could be considered the town square if Brekka was big enough for either title, every significant event in Brekka’s history has been announced, celebrated, or mourned on Balder’s weathered stones. It is there that Mathias met the people who would change his life forever, and there that, many years later, he would say goodbye to the only true family he had left.

A meter or two away from the entrance to Balder, Mathias slows from a jog as he tries to understand what he sees before him.

The source of the ruckus was nearly everyone Mathias has ever known, herded into Balder as if they were little more than cattle. Almost two hundred people, ready for the slaughter.

A pride of Brekka is the buildings in Balder, three stories high and regal in both their age and grace, yet in this moment they act as a cage, trapping his people between their stone faces.

There is a battalion of men in forest green and blood red uniforms, encasing the villagers with their bodies. Looking closer, Mathias sees that they have guns, the newest kind capable of killing five men with the space of a minute.

The men are military, but not of their nation.

These are the people just over the mountains. Those who’ve been at war with their king for much of Mathias’ lifetime.

Svaren.

Mathias realizes all at once that he is in the open and vulnerable. All it would take is just one of the men to glance over in his shoulder and Mathias would either be shot or dragged into Balder. Intuition tells him that either way he would die.

His mind and heart begin to race, scanning his memories of Balder for someplace to hide, somewhere he could see without being seen.

Then it hits him.

The Alcove.

_ The Bushes. _

* * *

 

Inside the foliage of the alcove, a small nook of plants encased in a low wall of stone, the earth is hard and cold, but it is dry, and in some ways warmer than in the open air. There is just enough room in between the leaves and pine needles of the alcove for Mathias to see through while still feeling hidden. Situated at the entrance of Balder, it gives him a perfect view of what is happening.

Mother and fathers hold their children to their chests, comforting their crying babies with empty words and promises. Spouses, siblings, uncles and cousins, even people who simply knew one another and nothing else, stood united in a singular wariness, in a singular shared terror.

He feels more fear for them than he did for himself.

Mathias follows frightened gazes to a makeshift platform just to the side of the temple, resting proudly under the bell tower on the farthest side of the square. It was currently occupied by an older man in a military uniform, beside stands two burly men, in uniform as well. Mathias feels his heart drop into his stomach, the full scope of what they were dealing with right before his eyes.

The snow quietly falling around Mathias begins swirling in violent gusts of wind. He silently prays to any gods that happened to be listening. He hopes that they aren’t within this sea of familiar faces, not when they are all he has. Mathias prays, to the old gods and the new, that the reason he couldn’t find her and her sons was because she had taken them to collect more medicinal herbs, not because all three of them were huddled with the rest. It is a foolish wish, and Mathias knows it is foolish, but he hopes anyhow, desperate gaze hunting for their faces.

A man spoke for the first time since Mathias had arrived, the cadence of his voice tinged with mocking, and it sends piercing red-hot spikes of anger through the fog of fear in his mind.

"We offered you a deal,” started the man. He speaks to them as if they are all children. He has the build of someone well fed, and it is easy to pick him out in this sea of faces clearly starving, his soldiers included.

He makes Mathias sick.

He continues, "Yes, we offered you a deal. A compromise! One I don’t believe is asking very much at all! Hand over food for my men, and in exchange for your cooperation and your silence, I would leave you and your village in peace.” For the first time, genuine emotion creeps into his voice.

Rage.

“And what do you do? You resist, you fight.” He takes in a breath, as if the next sentence hurts him to say.

“You _ kill  _ one of _ my men! _ ” The commander seethes, his face blooming red despite the cold. The line of soldiers visibly tense, some clenching their jaws or tightening their hold on their rifles.

Mathias’ minds races, glancing from familiar face to familiar face, trying to imagine who could have done it. Brekka is a mountain village that sits upon the only easily traveled passage over the Northern Mountains, and hence this was something the people had braced themselves for.

But there is usually a battalion of the king’s army stationed within and around their village, men, and boys that have grown close to the people of the village after too many years of war. They’re meant to keep the village secure, to protect this last stronghold of the north. If Svaren makes it past Brekka, they have a clear path to the capital with little to no resistance. It is the military’s disaster scenario, the path that could end the war and mean devastation for their kingdom.

However, after the General Wolfsheim's disastrous Western Campaign, the king ordered the battalion to come back to the capital, reasoning that Brekka is practically impenetrable during the winter, and so the boys left before the first snow came.

No one has ever said the king isn’t a fool.

The commander focuses a steely glare at the crowd assembled in front of him, regarding Mathias’ people, regarding his  _ home _ , as if they were all worth less than the dirt they stood upon. Images of bursting into Balder and wrapping his hands around the bastard's neck for even daring to point guns at his people, of knocking him off the pedestal he has placed himself on, flash behind in his mind. They are satisfying, even if the feeling is hollow.  

Some faces are openly terrified, but most have a quiet apprehension, anticipating what they all feel is coming.

There is the crunch of snow under a boot. Right outside of the alcove.

The hand of dread wraps itself around his heart and squeezes. He feels a very strange swirling mix of rage and nausea in the pit of his stomach, suddenly aware of the frost biting at his skin.

The snow begins to come down with a vengeance, stinging Mathias’ face even through the leaves, as if the heavens themselves are sending them a warning.

Mathias goes very still, every joint locking with terror. He feels the skin of his eyes pull taught, pupils blown wide, staring at the pair of boots not a foot from his face.

One of the soldiers in line speaks in a low tone, “You find any of them?”

The man in the boots makes a sharp grunt in return, voice gruff and weary. “No. They disappeared into the trees, probably going to hide out in whatever cave they crawled out of this morning.”

The first man makes a dismissive sound, “I’m sure the commander will send us after them after we’re done here.” His voice is a bit thin and rough around the edges, like it hasn’t quite settled into itself. He can’t be much older than Mathias himself.  

The boy takes a pause. “I can’t believe they killed Thomas.”

The grief in the boy’s voice is fresh and raw. Mathias can’t help but feel a pang if sympathy for him. In the end of the day, this war hasn’t been kind to any of them. Especially for boys like this one, losing their lives in a fight that was never their own.

Wars don’t care, they take and they break the lives of everyone involved. Neither do the people who start them. The fact that the invasion of Brekka is even happening should be evidence enough.

The crunch of snow returns as the man moves away from Mathias and falls back in line, a hand hitting shoulder in camaraderie. Mathias lets out a tentative sigh of relief.

“We’ll get him, Toris. I saw the way the bastard ran, and there’s not going to be any hiding once we burn this place to the ground. I swear to you, kid. We’ll get him.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

“No thanks needed, kid. Now stand guard before Lieutenant Hagen catches us slacking.”

The urge to run is nearly overpowering, but fear holds him in place, the conversation of the soldiers directing his attention back to the commander.

“I could forgive fighting back, it’s understandable, even if it is a death wish.” The commander sneers, “but killing one of my men is unforgivable. When we asked for so little-“

“We are starving!”

Mathias immediately focuses on the man who spoke, as does everyone else. Filip, the owner of Brekka’s bakery. The man has always been plump, but the lack of food has made its mark even on him. A kind man, baking as much bread as he possibly can with their dwindling reserves of grain and selling it to the people of the village for dirt cheap, he does his best to help in any way he can. He’s been almost like a second father to Mathias, giving him a small salary to work at the bakery and a warm meal at least once a week after his father… left.

Now that same man is staring up at the commander, shoulders and jaw squared, shaking from the cold, or fear, or perhaps from the force of his anger.

The commander regards Filip with cold malice. “What have you to say, my good man?”

“We had a drought this past summer, we have barely any grain in reserve, and even the animals around the village are starving. We cannot trade, the mountain pass snowed over months ago. We are barely surviving as it is! And you want us to hand over everything we have to  _ you _ ? Whether we comply or we resist, we still die. And I believe I speak for us all when I say I would much rather die than aid you in destroying our lives!”

Everyone roars their approval, enraged shouts and spouted curses fly freely and in abundance. Mathias’ people are a proud one, hardy mountain folk, and stubborn to the bitter end. He resists the urge to shout as well, to come out of his hiding place and join his people, to die with them. But he allow himself to die yet, because it is in this moment that he spots her. Elsa Bondevik, village healer and mother of two. Mathias’ caretaker, the mother he never had, the provider of love and a warm home to rest his head after his father had gone and his house became too empty and cold for Mathias to stand. A woman who is a fixture of his life, just as much as the stone walls of the village and the mountains surrounding them.

A woman who is standing with a rifle pointed at her chest.

Elsa sees him despite everything. Through the tension and the living wall of death surrounding her, through the literal shrubbery obscuring his face, she’s able to find him. She always finds him.

Her warm gaze thaws the ice surrounding his joints, and almost without his meaning to, he begins to stand. However, the curve of her mouth turns stern, her brows furrow with apprehension. With glances to the men surrounding her, Elsa shakes her head, fearful but certain.

‘ _ Go.’  _ Elsa mouths to Mathias. ‘ _ Quickly.’ _

Mathias won't allow himself to consider it. He will not leave the woman who has been the only mother he’s ever known to die. At the very least, he won’t leave her to die alone.

He shakes his head.

Elsa gives him a look that is remarkable for how much it holds in it. There is fear, for his safety and Mathias hopes for her’s as well. There is also worry, that he won’t listen to her, that he’s going to pull something stupid and that it will get him killed. But above all, there is an authority, it holds the surety of a mother. Willingness to stare into the abyss if it means her children get to see another day. Mathias will never stop being grateful that she has taken him as one of her own.

The villagers continue to holler, flinging curses and threats at the commander’s feet.

Elsa doesn’t acknowledge it, gaze boring into him as chaos expands around her.

‘ _ Please. Go.’  _ She pleads with him.

Mathias would do anything to make her happy.

He nods.

Some of the tension in her shoulders loosens, and Elsa smiles. Even from a distance, he can see her memorizing his face just as he does to her, drinking in the sight of him.

The moment feels like it spans eternity and in the same instance like it barely happened at all. And then it is ripped away from them.

_ Bang! _

Suddenly, Mathias is watching in horror as Filip falls to the ground, as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut. The commander holds a smoking pistol in his hand, gazing down his nose at Filip’s body with a forced detachment.

Everyone falls into a stunned silence. The sound of Filip’s labored breathing is like a gunshot in its own right. Filip’s wife rushes to him, gathering his limp body in her arm, pressing his head to her chest. They all stare, the weight of their collective gaze heavy on Mathias' heart even though they don’t rest on him. People start towards drift to the edges of Balder, sizing up the side streets and alleys leading out of Balder and into the rest of Brekka.

They all freeze in terror when they hear the foreboding click of a soldier’s rifle.

It feels like years have gone by before Filip stops breathing.

A part of Mathias breaks when Filip’s wife lets loose a howl of grief, replacing his previous outrage with an empty sort of stillness. The sort that comes when you have felt too much too fast, when the rest of your body needs a moment to catch up to your mind. Like holding your breath, bracing for impact as the ground rushes up to meet you.

He feels a scream forming in his throat, and cups a shaking hand over his mouth to keep it inside. Mathias feels his world crashing down around him. He trains his gaze on the clouds, seeking out gods he is no longer sure are there.

Even with all of his winters and storms, he could swear the sky has never looked so gray.

The commander speaks, a chilling rage thundering just underneath the surface, “Is this what you wanted?! A life for a life, it is only what is fair. And now that we all have blood on our hands, will you reconsider my offer?!” His face has become grave, yet his gaze feels like hot coals on Mathias’ skin. “This is the final time I will ask.”

As if on cue, a distant crackle of fire just on the edge of their senses becomes a roar. To Mathias’ right, the blacksmith’s shop goes up in flame, quickly engulfing the building and spreading to those next to it. Almost simultaneously, the surrounding homes and shops fall to the same fate until almost every building, home or cabin in sight has become a part of a raging inferno. They become a manifestation of the Brekka’s fury.

This their last line of defense, an ultimatum Mathias never thought they would reach.

If Svaren ever manages to take the village, burn it to the ground before they can. It is the resolution of Mathias’ people to die with their pride.

The commander snarls, looking at the mounting desolation around him. He looks into the steely gazes of the people in front of him, finally seeing they had made their choice long before he had stepped foot upon their soil.

“So be it.” The commander turns to his men. “Open fire!”

Too many years of war have steeled these men to be shadows of who they once were. Mathias can probably imagine some of the awful things they must have done in service of their home and country. He knows that they carry in their souls the lives that they have taken, the blood that stains their hands long after they have washed it off.

He knows because he has seen it in the men stationed at Brekka, the newest arrivals who cling to their rifles with white-knuckled fists and scream themselves out of sleep, clinging to ghosts only they can see. He has known men who have lost the ability to think for themselves, who have learned it is easier to follow orders and not look at the face of the man on the other end of the barrel. He knows what these men will do.

This war has been kind to none of them. But it has been especially cruel to those who fight it.

Screams ring out as the soldiers pull their triggers.

Mathias can do nothing but watch in horror as he witnesses a different kind of chaos unfold, the sort painted on a canvas of blood and flame. The most naive part of himself entertains the thought that this could all be some terrible nightmare, the overactive imagination of a child terrorized by a life formed in the ashes of war.

And then the bush catches on fire.

He first sees Elsa’s eyes fill with horror, laying on the snow and ash, gaze still locked on him despite everything. And then he feels the heat, the smoke filling the space between leaves with speed and precision. He resists the urge to scream when a spark lands on his cheek, eyes watering in the smoke. He sees the soldiers in front of him, firing at the crowd. He keeps his gaze steady, if only so Elsa doesn’t see the mounting pain he in.

He watches as her love betrays her.

“Mathias! Mathias, stop! Go!”

The heat becomes too much, and he jumps out of the bushes, heaving in the clearer air.

Immediately the two soldier’s turn towards him, a young man and an older one.

“Get him Toris!” The older soldier barks.

“Run!” Elsa shrieks. “Go to them!”

Mathias runs.

His eyes still burn from the smoke and his feet are stiff with cold, but he runs. He runs until the screams of his people fade, and then he runs farther still. He runs until the cobblestone streets become worn dirt roads once more. 

All the while the sound of military boots crunching in the snow follows him, never letting up no matter how far he goes.

His head is spinning, and he knows his malnourished body isn’t going to be capable of carrying him much farther. He coughs, his lungs still not completely clear and certainly not up for the marathon he is putting them through. At this rate, he’ll drop dead before the man behind him can catch up.

It is either be caught or outsmart him. And though Mathias might not be the smartest, he knew the forests better than he knew himself, and this man has never stepped foot in them.

Hopefully that ends up being enough.

* * *

 

Mathias quickly veers off the forest path he had been following, taking a sharp left into the dense line of trees. He hears the soldier behind him swear, then the crunch of snow and leaves as he turns to follow.

Admittedly, Mathias knows very little about Svaren’s weather, but if the curses echoing from behind are any hint, this man has never had to run through two feet of snow before.

Thank the gods, as it gives him just enough time to find what he needs. A clearing with a fallen tree, hollowed out by animals and time. He makes a run for it, shimmying inside, forcing the new broadness of his shoulders to fit.

He holds pulls in a shuddering breath and holds it. For a moment, all he can hear is the howl of wind and his racing heart. He lets it go.

The sound of boots in snow comes soon after.

They come closer, the pauses in between the steps making the noose of dread wrapped around his neck tighten until he can barely breathe.

“I know that you’re in the log.”

His heart drops. He hears the click of a rifle.

“Come out. Make this easy for yourself.”

Mathias is faced with two choices. Hide and die like a coward, or stand his ground, face the end without flinching.

He climbs out of the log.

Toris really is not much older than Mathias himself, jaw bare despite having no way of shaving, mousy brown hair dusting his chin. He looks at Mathias with eyes of vivid green, the confidence and resolution in them more forced than natural. Toris’ hands tighten around the rifle, his feet shift in the snow as if he’s unsettled.

He looks Mathias up and down, taking in his ragged appearance. Mathias wonders what he sees, if he sees the lankiness that had outpaced the rest of his body over the summer, leaving him awkward and painfully young looking. Or if he sees blued lips and curled fists, broad shoulders giving a hint what Mathias will look like in years to come. He wonders if Toris could allow himself to see Mathias for the child that he is.

“Will-” Toris hesitates.

“Turn around.”

Mathias is confused. No matter what direction he is facing, towards him or away, north or south, he is going to die. Would it not be better to see it coming? In this man’s eyes, does he not deserve the last shred of dignity he has left, the right to see the end before it comes?

This may be his death, but Mathias refuses to let it be his execution.

“No.”

Toris’ knuckles go white around the barrel of his rifle.

“What do you mean no? Just do it, kid!”

“I said no! Just shoot me, dammit, what the hell are you waiting for?!”

The rifle swings upwards, pointing directly at Mathias’ chest. There is a moment where the two look at each other, and Mathias sees it, the ghosts that haunt the eyes of all those who have been forced into this fight. Mathias wonders who Toris sees when he looks at him.

The moment ends, and with a confidence he does not feel, Mathias speaks.

“Do it.”

Toris’ hands shake.

And with a cry of rage, he throws his rifle into the snow.

Mathias stares with shock at Toris, staring down at his feet in shame.

“I can’t do it,” he says. “You’re just a kid.” He buries his face in his hands.

“So many of them were just kids.”

The urge to comfort him arises, strange but strong. Mathias moves to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey-”

“Don’t.” Toris looks at him, a small, bitter smile on his face. “Just go. Get out of here before they find you. I’ll just say that I lost you in the forest.” He laughs without humor. “Technically I won’t be lying.”

Mathias finds out very suddenly, that it’s difficult to accept being able to live when you’ve accepted the reality of your own death. But he barely hesitates, driven by a stronger purpose that usurps his reeling mind.

On his way out of the clearing, he turns back, just once.

“Will you be alright? Will they hurt you?”

Toris looks up from where he stares at his rifle, already dusted in white. His smile is still small, but it is also more genuine. His smile is kind.

“I’ll be fine kid. Now go. Stay safe.”

Mathias nods and gives him a tiny grin in return. 

“Thank you.”

Then Mathias leaves and runs towards the outskirts of Brekka. He has two people waiting for him, and they are all that matter, above the war, above the village, above any other people living or dead in this world. Because in this world, they are all Mathias has left. And if the emptiness in his heart is correct, he is all they have left too.

And so he runs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess which piece of shit just pulled this! That's right, it's me! I'm the piece of shit! 
> 
> I said I would finish this, I just never said it would be in its original form.
> 
> I apologize to anyone who loved Your Bones (the first version of this,) and I hope you can see that this story is still Your Bones, just better written and a bit more mature (I hope). 
> 
> And for the new peeps, I hope you stick around! Thank you so much for giving me and my story your time, and I'll be seeing ya'll soon. 
> 
> Bye for now!


	2. Walking Barefoot in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What she sees on her doorstep is a young man, with another boy leaning against his side who looks hurt, and a third, standing, nearly hiding, behind the first two. The young man’s eyes are blown wide, his platinum hair messy and his face covered in a layer of dirt. Before she can tell them that she has no money to spare, the boy speaks. Just two words.
> 
> “Doctor. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eino Väinämöinen, as you can probably tell, is Finland. His first name is an actual Finnish name, and pronounced Eh-No. 
> 
> Thank you for clicking!

New Avis, the capital of Svaren, has seen many things in its long history. On a cold February night, three boys who have never stepped foot in its majesty wander its historic streets, cloaks bundled against the cold. Their bare feet leave clear prints in the freshly fallen snow, the smallest figure carrying their shoes in his hands.

Abruptly, the boy carrying another turns left, coming to the door of a house with candle light shining through the front window. The boy waits as the owner of the house gets closer, shuffling noises gaining in volume. Finally a woman opens the door, shawl pulled over her shoulders and sleeping cap already in place.

What this woman sees on her doorstep is a young man, another boy leaning against him seemingly hurt, and a third, younger boy, nearly hiding behind the first two. The young man’s eyes are blown wide, his platinum hair messy and his face covered in a layer of dirt. Before she can tell them that she has no money to spare, the boy speaks, just two words, with a heavy accent.

“Doctor. Please.”

He points to the hurt boy’s side, moving his hand so she can get a glimpse of his injury. The woman gasps.

The young man looks back to her. “Please.”

The woman closes her door halfway. Then she opens it again, this time with boots on and a thicker shawl.

“Follow me.”

* * *

 Eino Väinämöinen expected many things when he moved to New Avis. In many ways, leaving home was one of the hardest things he has ever done, but he has also never felt more right than he did going along the countrysides of Svaren as a travelling physician, helping those who needed it for no more than he needed to get food and a warm bed to sleep in.

He’d been many places, met many different people, lived many different lives. Foolishly, after a few years logged away running his general store, Eino truly believed that life had nothing new in store for him.

He finds out just how wrong he was on a February night, just after he closes for the day. It starts with the store bell ringing.

“I’m sorry, but we just closed up,” Eino says, not looking up from wiping the counter. “We open at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, you can come back then.”

“Help.”

Eino finally looks at who has walked in the door. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget what he sees.

In front of him is a young boy, wrapped in a fur blanket but still shivering against cold that Eino does not feel. Behind him are two older boys, one who looks so much like the youngest Eino immediately knows that they are brothers. The third boy doesn’t look like the brothers. He leans against the older brother’s side, eyes open but unfocused, breathing heavy and laborious. Eino’s eyes lock onto where his hand clutches his side, the only part of the boy’s body that isn’t quickly going limp.

The older brother takes a difficult step forward, clearly bearing most, if not all of the his friend’s weight. He has a simple face, but a regal one, the sort that is always in some sort of thought and is intent on not telegraphing to the world what those thoughts are. Later, Eino will realize that he notices this solely because this boy reminds him viscerally of someone he knew once, a lifetime ago. But here, in the present, that face is screwed in effort and desperation. He shifts his friend in his arms, his gaze boring into Eino’s.

“Help him, please.”  

The older brother has a thick accent, and the words don’t sound comfortable for him to say, but his desperation sets Eino so on edge he doesn’t think to question it.

“I will, but you need to tell me what you need me to do.”

The older boy gaze starts the flicker around the room, searching for an answer that the selves of flour and toys won't be able to give him. He looks back to Eino, tightening his grip when the third boy begins to slip out of his grasp. “Please. _Please._ ” He repeats the word like a mantra a few more times, and only that word. Eino has a sudden and visceral realization that the boy doesn’t speak Svarska.

In addition, for all of his traveling and experience, he can’t tell where they’re from, and so he doesn’t know where to begin in trying to bridge the gap. He says to the boy, still in Svarska, trying his best to speak slowly and clearly despite growing panic. “Show me what is wrong.”

Later, Eino won’t really know how it happens. His best guess is that the third boy finally loses his battle to keep consciousness, and the sudden deadweight drags both of the older boys to the ground.

Eino’s heart drops.

He rushes over, practically leaping over his counter, barely managing to catch the injured boy in time. His hand is suddenly very warm, and slick.

He looks down. Blood.

He looks closer at the boy’s side. He has a long gash along the side of his abdomen, deep and still bleeding.

The older brother now has his friend’s upper body cradled to himself, eyes begging him for his help.

“Save him.”

* * *

 Eino can’t help but curse himself for not knowing sooner what the boys needed. He cuts away the boy’s deep red tunic with practiced precision ( _of course you won’t notice blood if his tunic is_ _red)._ He unearths his medical kit, sterilized needles, sends the older boy out of his backroom when his concerned hoovering begins to impede his progress. Eino can’t help but be thankful for the boy’s sake that he is thoroughly unconscious, as his wound is deep and the process of stopping the bleeding and stitching it closed would be excruciating. He’s already twitching slightly as it is, and Eino is very thankful is friends don’t have to hear him scream for any number of hours.

However, he doesn’t let himself think of how much blood the boy must of lost to pass out the way he did. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand. Thank all the gods, the wound hasn’t been infected, and as far as he can tell nothing major was harmed, but the recovery process for a gash this deep will be a long one, if the boy recovers at all.

_‘No, I can’t think like that. I are going to save this kid’s life one way or the other, I’m not going to give up on him.’_

And with that he gets to work, stopping the bleeding. He heats up a surgical knife in the fireplace, preparing to cauterizing as much of the wound as possible.

But then the boy wakes up.

“Oh gods.” Eino whispers to himself. He rushes over the the table to the boy who looks to be in a lot of pain, and very, very scared. “Hello, you’re okay, I’m here to help. Your friends,” He points to the door and the boy’s eyes follow, “brought you to me, so I’m going to take care of you. But, I need to cauterize the wound.” The boy closes his eyes again, clearly aware of what he’s saying and what this means for him.

“What’s your name, kid?” The boy looks up at him again, cornflower blue eyes pinched with pain.

His voice is dry and barely above a whisper, fighting against the sound of the fireplace, but Eino hears him when the boy forces out, “Mathias…”

“Okay, then Mathias,” he looks directly into his eyes. “I need you to be very brave for me. Your friends are outside, and they’re going to be really happy when I tell them that you pulled through this. Okay buddy?” Mathias gives a tiny, nearly imperceptible nod. “Alright. I’m going to give you some cloth to bite on buddy, okay?” Another tiny nod. “Alright.”

He digs through his medical kit, cutting off a wad of gauze and giving it to Mathias for him to bite on.

“Now, buddy, this is going to hurt, and I know you know that, but you’re gonna be okay.” Mathias nods. Eino nods to himself as well, just a little bit of confidence before he does something he hoped he would never have to do again.

He takes his heated surgical knife out of the fire, coming back over to Mathias before he pauses. “Mathias, are you ready.”

He nods, his already jaw clenching.

“Okay.”

The process is agonizing for the both of them, Mathias’ knuckles go white as he death grips the sides of the worktable and his jaw clenches so hard that his veins bulge. But he doesn’t scream. Even in breaks between applications, he only breathes heavily and lets himself cry, but never once does he scream. Eino, for his part, focuses himself in the moment, not letting himself feel the guilt of doing this to a teenager without sedating him.

By the time he is finished, Mathias has lost consciousness again, every part of his body falling slack. Eino stands for a moment with his hands on his hips, breathing a temporary sigh of relief.

“Thank the gods.”

Finally, with his energy waning, he stitches the gash closed with razor sharp focus and procession that comes with many years of practice.

At the end of it all, it takes nearly two hours to get everything done, and even then he isn’t completely satisfied. The boy would fair better in a hospital, but Eino’s work should be more than enough until they can bring him to one. After he goes out the back to the pump and washes his hands in freezing cold water, he comes back and dresses the wound, gently lifting the boy’s head and putting a pillow under it from the chair in the corner. He finds a quilt in his upstairs supply closet and drapes it over the boy, making sure his bare torso is covered and protected against any chill. He leaves a low fire going for good measure.

Outside the backroom, the brothers sit apart, the younger curled up by himself in front of the window display, the older sitting on the floor right next to the door, waiting with his face pillowed on his arms. His head shoots up when he hears the creaking of the door hinges.

He begins speaking rapid fire in a language that sounds familiar to Eino, looking as though he wants to grab the older man but is holding himself back. Eino shushes him, making sure he is looking and paying attention. Speaking slowly and simply, Eino asks him in Svarska, “Where are you from?”

The boy thinks before replying, wobbly and quiet, “Tormir.”

Eino reevaluates everything he thought he knew about these three boys. He takes in ratty tunics, their dirty faces, their boots, well-weathered and barely hanging on. They’re not new immigrants or foreign children of a traveling merchant, both of which are common in New Avis. No… they’re-

“You’re refugees.”

The boy hesitates before he nods. “I am Lukas,” he points to the youngest boy by the window,“he is Emil.” Lukas glances behind Eino, gaze resting on the door to the backroom. “He is Mathias.”

“I know, he told me.”

Lukas starts. “What do you mean?”

Eino cringes internally, not realizing that the boys hadn’t heard the conversation or the the grunts of pain Mathias would let out every now. “He woke up somewhere near the end. I didn’t have anaesthesia so I had to work on him while he was awake.”

Lukas slides back down the wall back onto the floor. “Oh gods.”

Eino kneels down to his level, moving to sit next to him. “I know.”

The sit together for a while, Eino watching the youngest Emil playing around with the toy trains and fairies in the display window. He assumes it’s about time to ask the questions that have been bouncing around in his mind all night. “Lukas, how much Svarska can you speak?”

“I can understand better than I speak, Mathias’ father…” He pauses, searching for the word, “taught, he taught us some.”

 _‘Why would a Tormin know Svarska?’_ “Alright, I will speak slowly and you answer me as best as you can, is that okay?”

Lukas nods.

“Alright. Alright...” Eino finds himself hesitating, unsure whether Lukas is capable of telling him how they ended up at his front door, let alone if he would want too. He decides to play it safe for the moment.

“Actually, how about I give you a place to sleep tonight? Come, I have a guest room upstairs.”

Lukas nods, going to collect his brother. The youngest; _‘Emil,’_ Eino remembers, takes his brother’s hand without question, staring blankly at nothing in particular. Eino can’t help but think that his eyes look haunted, and his heart aches for them all.

Eino leads the boys up the narrow staircase to his apartments above. It is pressingly dark with only a candle to light the way, but he hasn’t saved the money to have electricity wired to his upstairs and all the remodeling that would require yet. He takes them to his guest room, a tiny closet like room with a bed barely big enough for two people and not much beyond that.

“Here we are. I know it is not much, but it should be enough for tonight. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” With that, he turns to go, but Lukas calls out to him.

“Sir?” Eino looks back to him. Lukas is holding Emil now, his brother’s small arms wound loosely around his neck. “Could you wait out here? I’ll be quick.”  

Despite the events of the night, Eino finds himself amused and a bit charmed by Lukas’ heavy Tormin accent. “Of course, whatever you need.”

And so he waits by the door as Lukas puts Emil to bed, nowhere near as much of an event as it is with other children around his age. He tries not to think about how much of that is his personality and how much is experience.

When Lukas emerges, gingerly closing the door behind him, he looks as though he’ll lose consciousness at any moment. Eino grabs onto his arm when the kid stumbles, nearly crashing into the hall table and the candle on top of it.

“Are _you_ alright?” Eino asks him, gaze trailing over him, searching for any injuries he may have overlooked in his rush to help Mathias.

“Yes, I am fine. I am just tired.”

“If you’re sure you’re alright.”

“Yes, I am okay.”

“Alright.”

And so they stand there for a moment, Eino looking at Lukas, Lukas looking at his shoes.

“Can I see him?” Lukas asks, barely above a whisper.

“Of course.” Eino replies, already leading him downstairs.

* * *

At first Eino gives Lukas his time, Mathias isn’t going to wake up anytime soon and from observation it doesn’t seem as though Lukas will do anything more than holding his hand, he decides it can’t hurt to let him be alone with his friend. However, an hour later, when the sun starts to rise and Eino can barely keep his eyes open, he then decides that it’s time to send on kid to bed and move the other from his makeshift cot on the table to an actual cot on the floor of the backroom.

He knocks before he enters, seeing Lukas startle slightly before looking at him.

“I’m sorry, but I need to move him into a cot, and you need to go to bed.” It takes a minutes for Lukas to nod, but he eventually does, gaze moving back to his friend’s ashen face and squeezing his hand. When he speaks, it is very quiet, but in the stillness of the room with only Mathias’ weak breathing to break the silence, Eino hears him.

“He saved us.”

“He did?”

“Yes. He-” Lukas shallows around a lump in his throat. “He got us out. Of the village. Of the country.” He nods to himself. “I owe him my life. I owe him my brother’s life.”

He turns to Eino, his deep blue eyes alight with the fire on conviction. “I cannot fail him.”

And it is there, in his cramped backroom, the sun peaking out from behind the mountains, a new dawn upon them all, Eino looks upon the pained face of a boy who has been through hell and came out still breathing, and finds himself thinking, ‘Neither can I.’

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, but I am so thankful for y'all sticking around with me. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for your time. 
> 
> Thank you.


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